


Fall Into the Sky

by duffmansean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Agoraphobia, Community: ohsam, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duffmansean/pseuds/duffmansean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for twirlycurls 's oh_sam  h/c challenge prompt: Post-apocalyptic world filled with dangers but nothing the Winchesters couldn't handle – except that as soon as they find a relatively safe, secure place to settle, Sam develops severe agoraphobia and doesn't want to leave their house.</p><p>Takes place after the S4 finale, but goes AU after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Let it not be said that the Winchesters aren't a hardy breed; especially those two young boys, Dean and Sam. They had seen and experienced just about everything that a person could imagine, and had managed to (mostly) keep themselves sane. But all the horrors of the world, real and supernatural alike, couldn't really prepare Sam Winchester for the Devil, with a capital D. There was evil and then there was  _evil;_  and Sam was the one who had let the ugly, belly-to-the-ground supernatural piece of crap out of his cage.  
  
As soon as they could, the boys tucked tail and headed for Bobby's. Where else were they going to go? At first, things were okay and the boys thought maybe,  _maybe_  they could get through this one. The world outside Bobby's windows looked the same as it always did.  
  
Sam felt terrible for what happened and said so; Dean was angry and said so; Bobby acted as neutralizer and kept Dean from tearing Sam a new one.  
  
“Stop bickering like an old married couple, will ya?” He had grumbled, one hand on either boy's chest to keep them separated. “Let's figure how the hell we're gonna beat  _the_   _Devil_ and then we'll think about beating up each other.... Ya idjits.” The boys needed only a moment's breath before they nodded in agreement, shuffling their feet sheepishly at the reprimand.   
  
They kept their heads down in the days that followed, using Bobby as their means of communication with other hunters. Then the TV went out. A few hours after, the phones stopped working. Then the Internet went down. And that was how the apocalypse really began; not with a bang or raging screams or heart-broken weeping but with sudden, deafening silence.

 

* * *

 

“This could work,” Sam said from the passenger seat, sticking his finger into Dean's periphery vision to indicate to their left.  
  
There was rumor of a town in Colorado being terrorized by demons, and the Winchesters had followed it in hopes of making themselves feel somewhat useful. Now the boys were just outside of the town and looking for a place to crash, planning on making an entrance in the morning.  
  
The house Sam had pointed to – if it could be called a house – was a small starter home, probably with one bedroom and one bath and maybe an extra toilet hidden in a closet somewhere. The headlights of the Impala illuminated shutters that were more splinters than plank, but the glass was surprisingly intact, bouncing the light back to them. The paint was weathered, the door looked ready to swing right off its hinges, and Dean was pretty sure the gutters had never worked properly. Compared to the dilapidated heaps barely supporting their own framework that surrounded it, though, it looked fantastic.

  
“Yeah, I guess,” Dean said, pulling the old Chevy up onto the cracked driveway and killing the engine.  
  
“See the chimney?” Sam said, pointing up and outside of the windshield. “Means a fireplace. And I dunno about you, Dean, but I could use some heat.” A smile quirked one corner of Sam's lips, dimpling the skin. Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd seen those dimples.  
  
It had been a rough couple months; arguments, demons, panic attacks – yeah, that had hit them out of left field. He had initially thought they were Sam's visions come back but no, it was just Sam losing his grip on things. Great. They had left Bobby's shortly after the first attack, determined to go  _do something_  before the cabin fever drove them both insane. They helped where they could and took whatever hunts were mentioned in conversation. Sam managed to keep his panic confined to little episodes rather than full-blown attacks. Somehow, their world kept going. Dean was always surprised when they found sleepy little towns like this one that had managed to keep it together through the fucking Apocalypse. There was nothing pleasant about his surprise, though; he was just cynically pitying toward the poor folk who had (unfortunately) managed to survive the fallout.  
  
Sitting in the driver's seat of his baby, Dean ran a hand over his face and nodded. Sam was right; a fire would be nice to have. The winter air was sharp in their lungs, chilling them to the bone, and it would likely get colder as the night continued. Having a fire going would help immensely. They had scavenged blankets from previous homes they stayed in, but to be able to keep warm while going to sleep and then have something to warm them in the morning... that was a luxury all in its own.  
  
They checked the little house for anything threatening, shining flashlights into every corner, and – having found the place free of any unwanted bedfellows – set up shop. Focused more on survival than weaponry, they traveled heavier than they used to; they stocked canned food in the back of the trunk with extra blankets and first aid supplies, any ammunition they could find (it was about as precious a commodity as toilet paper). They had two duffels, one for clothes and one for weapons.  
  
They moved old, dusty furniture up against the walls to clear space in the living room so they could sleep in front of the fire. It made both boys think of when they were little, building forts out of blankets and chairs in the hotel rooms while John was away. Neither mentioned it to the other, but they both remembered it, and it eased the tension. By the time Dean struck a match to light the firewood they had found in the backyard, both men were smiling and in much better spirits.  
  
“We'll head into town tomorrow,” Dean said, breaking the comfortable hush that had fallen around them as they watched the growing flames, “See who we can find. Should probably be okay with just one gun, in case... you know.” He left the last thought unsaid.  
  
Sam nodded, knowing how some people had taken to the Apocalypse. When they left in the morning, they might find a little commune of people holding things together with spit and will power, or they might find a handful of lunatics looking for an outlet.

 

* * *

 

They found the former of the two. The town's folk were skittish and distrusting but not stark, raving mad. Sam considered it a good omen.  
  
Two hours later, when Sam found himself being thrown over the altar of the local church and bludgeoned by a candelabra, he thought maybe God had been messing with them.  
  
“Sam!” Dean's voice carried over the sounds of broken pews and glass.  
  
The younger Winchester blocked another attack, trying to yank the brass weapon out from the demon's hands but failing. It offered him enough leverage to get himself up from the floor, though, and he glanced quickly over the demon's shoulder. He caught sight of Dean grappling with another black-eyed being in the sea of splintered pews, a third demon headed briskly up behind him.  
  
“Dea—Ughh--” His shout was cut off by another blow that clipped his shoulder, leaving it aching and probably sprained. Sam was just grateful he could still move it. He lashed out at the demon in front of him, glancing over its shoulder every few seconds and seeing the other one weaving through the aisles towards his brother. “Dean, behind you!” Sam's movements sped up, desperate to be rid of this adversary and by his brother's side.  
  
With one final swing, Sam managed to catch the demon in the jaw and knock him back a few steps. He used the time to pull his knife and, as the demon came at him again, Sam drove the blade into its middle. His victory was short lived as he heard the distinct sound of someone's body breaking another pew and Dean grunting in pain; Sam stayed only long enough to see the demon flare out of existence and the body crumple to the floor.  
  
Dean had heard Sam's warning and it spared him a broken two-by-four to the head. Unfortunately, that's about all it was good for, as he still had to deal with two pissed-off demons itching to rip him apart. The first lunged as the second blocked Dean's blow, making it drop the broken piece of church pew functioning as a make-shift weapon, and Dean twisted around to the first demon again. He took a blow to his arm, then a second, and managed a quick jab at the demon's shoulder.  
  
Glancing back at the altar, he couldn't see the demon but Sam was racing down the isle in an attempt to help. Dean's attention was drawn back to the two creatures bracketing him as he was forced to duck to avoid the first demon's retaliating swing. He answered with a swift upper-cut and knocked it back into the jumbled debris.  
  
The attack left him open and he felt the second demon's arms snake around him, constricting and trying to pin him in a choke-hold. Struggling against the hold, Dean managed to pull his other arm out far enough to slam his elbow back into the demon's solar plexus, knocking the wind from it and breaking its grip on him. Dean spun around and kicked out hard, propelling the black-eyed freak away from him. As he reached into his pocket for the flask of holy water, Dean was aware of Sam shouting to him. He could hear the urgency of the words and started to turn around.  
  
The gunshot was obscenely loud, making his ears ring in the deafening silence that followed.  
  
“No! Dean!” Sam vaulted over the dregs of the pews, mindless of the jagged bits scraping at his ankles. “No, no, no,” he begged, breathless, as he saw the demon pull a gun from its belt. It took a hasty aim, fired, and hit Dean high in the chest. The elder Winchester had barely even turned around in time to see it happen.  
  
Sam's heart battered against his ribs, angry and panicked. He drew the knife up and, not slowing at all -- even when the demon turned its gun on him -- he drove the blade up and into the demon's skull. Blood poured over Sam's hand, but he didn't care. He watched the dying glow fill the creature's eyes, illuminating the flesh of its face, and then he yanked the knife away and let the body fall.  
  
The second demon made a valiant attempt to disarm Sam but couldn't stop him, the knife sinking into its flesh in a moment of vulnerability. Several long seconds passed as Sam's lungs pulled in aching breaths. His head whipped around, eyes searching everywhere for an attack but finding none. The church was empty, save the few corpses of innocent but unlucky people and the two Winchesters.  
  
Dean had crumpled into a heap, with his knees tucked under him and his body leaning heavily against a half-destroyed pew. Dropping down next to his brother, Sam reached out to inspect the damage. When Sam moved his shoulder to look for an exit wound, Dean issued a deep groan. The bullet must have lodged within the fleshy tissue beneath his clavicle because the back of Dean’s shirt was free of holes.  Sam would have to get it out, but for now he could only wad up the fabric of Dean's shirt and – apologizing profusely in advance – hold down pressure. There was an alarming amount of blood staining the fabric of his clothing.  
  
“Help me--,” Dean's voice was ragged as he fought through the pain, “Help me up, will ya?”  
  
Sam nodded and moved to the other side of his brother, working an arm under Dean's good one to take the brunt of the elder's weight. Dean could barely keep his feet under him as they stood up, and Sam stooped to keep from tugging his brother's shoulder. He helped Dean into the passenger side of the car -- nervous dread writhing in his gut when Dean didn't argue -- and booked it back to their little house.

 

* * *

 

So much blood.

And no amount of pressure seemed able to make it stop.

Sam half-dragged, half-carried his injured brother through their front door and, setting him down in the living room near the fireplace, helped to prop him up against the couch. Dean's skin was clammy, sweat beading on his pale brow. He shook bodily, cradling his wounded arm against his chest, and moaned nonsensical complaints.

Sam wanted to say something comforting for his brother's benefit but nothing came to mind, and his vocal chords weren't really working right at the moment anyway. His mouth was dry and he watched his hands shake as he pushed another wadded up sheet against Dean's shoulder.  _Please just stop bleeding, please, please, please..._  Dean moaned at the increased pressure but Sam didn't let up - he couldn't.

Pulling the blood-soaked sheet back, Sam almost whimpered at the dark trickle still oozing from the wound. He might have said something to Dean about being right back but, more than likely, the words just stayed somewhere in his panicked mind. Dean wouldn't hear what he said anyway, he was too out of it.

Sam raced out to the Impala, digging in her trunk for the tool box they kept all their medical supplies in. He grabbed at the handle, fumbling in his rush. His fingers didn't listen to his brain as he told them to grip the handle. He almost caught his hand under the lid of the trunk as he slammed it back down. He really needed to get himself together.

Sam took a deep breath as he hurried back to the house: He had to get the bullet out of Dean's shoulder. And then he would sew it up. And then he would apply a gauze of some sort to bandage the wound. And then he would keep holding pressure. And then Sam would pray.

The steps were a mantra in Sam's head, distracting and comforting and keeping him focused on what he needed to do. He  _didn't_ need to panic. He didn't need to be so anxious and such a mess right then. But Sam didn't like being away from Dean, afraid his brother would just bleed out and d.... well, that Dean would bleed out while Sam was outside.

Dean smiled at Sam when he came back inside. The soft quirk of his mouth made Sam's heart ache and his pulse race, and his stomach dropped at the idea of it being  _gone_.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean said in a ragged half-whisper.

Sam tried to smile, tried to be encouraging.

Dean tilted his head back against the couch. “You okay?”

Not encouraging enough.

Sam nodded, taking a shaky breath and tried once more for a smile. He was pretty sure he succeeded when Dean nodded and closed his eyes... though, that only served to make Sam panic more, his eyes darting down to Dean's chest to make sure he was still breathing. Which he was. Of course. They'd lived through worse than this.  _Get it together, Sam._

The problem was, he just couldn't.

The idea of Dean not breathing had his mind racing into a million scenarios all ending with him alone, left to face the apocalypse by himself without his big brother to help shoulder the burden. Sam didn't deserve the help, but Dean was always there to offer it, even when they got pissed with one another. It was a silent conviction between them, summed up in one word;  _Family_. But family was currently bleeding out in the middle of some abandoned living room in bum-fuck Colorado and Sam didn't even have the luxury of taking him to the hospital. Taking another couple deep breaths, Sam tried to still his rapid pulse so he could do what he needed to do because Dean needed the help and god damn it if he didn't deserve Sam's full faculty.

Sam cut through Dean's ruined shirt - no way were those stains ever coming out – and worked his shoulder free. The elder Winchester groaned in protest once or twice, mentioned something about Sam being a bitch, and then was silent once more.

The wound was surprisingly clean, most of the gun powder and soot having settled on Dean's shirt, and the edges were puckering angrily, turning a white color as the blood drained from them. A dark rusty stain smeared across Dean's breast, concentrating below the bullet hole where it still flowed freely. It was nothing more than a scratch really. Sam could patch it up easily.

But his brain didn't seem to want to listen to the facts. Sam's heart still pumped as quickly and he still shook with jitters; it was like when he had his first midterms at Stanford and he'd gone on a coffee binge for three days, no sleep. It was a wonder his brain was still working at this point. He needed to get a hold of himself, needed to reign in the frightening thoughts of death and  _alone_  and failure that fluttered through his mind in scattering patterns.

So Sam picked up the medical kit and got to work. He emptied the alcohol all over the place, soaking his hands and Dean's skin and the needle and thread in the process, and slowly set to stitching his brother up. It took some work to get the bullet out and Dean moaned loudly, tense and grabbing at Sam with his good hand.

“I know,” Sam said in sympathy, frowning and trying to work as quickly as he could without sacrificing skill. Hysteria made his fingers clumsy. “Almost, Dean... almost.”

With a wet squelch and then a belated thunk, the bullet came out and tumbled to the carpet. A shaky, whimpering breath escaped Dean as he settled back against the couch, tension easing from his body.

Though Sam was grateful to have gotten the bullet out with minimal damage to the surrounding tissue, he still had to stitch Dean up. And, naturally, the wound was bleeding afresh now, worse than before. With the needle threaded, Sam set to work. There would surely be a scar, Sam was certain of that; his hands shook too much and he misjudged his mark a few times, threading the needle a bit crooked. Dean would enjoy having something to brag about and show off in a bar with, but Sam felt stupid for letting himself get wrapped up in his emotions.

They kept the bottle of vodka in the medical kit for a reason and Dean, in his half-alert state, grabbed for it.

Tying off the anchor stitch, Sam apologized profusely to Dean. “It's done,” he said, wiping the wound down with alcohol once more and helping to get some of the dried blood off his skin. “I'm gonna get some firewood, okay?” He cleared his throat, realizing how dry his voice sounded. The words were like dry leaves across the concrete.

Dean didn't answer him.

Sam kept glancing over his shoulder as he walked down the hallway toward the back door, afraid to leave Dean alone. His hands itched to go back and peel away the bandage, to see the blood clotting around the puckered, raged edges of the wound and know that Dean was still alive. Sam's mind raced through possibilities of what he would find when he came back. What if he had mis-stitched something and now the wound had come undone and Dean was in pain and it was Sam's fault. It was always Sam's fault.

The woodpile was in the furthest corner of the back porch, away from the door. Most of the logs were long-since rotted through but a few were still useful, mostly at the top of the pile. Sam's panic jumped as he walked out of the house. He could feel his body quaking and his mind wasn't focusing. Despite his best efforts to calm himself, he was having trouble keeping himself from thinking of what he'd done, of what he had brought on Earth and its inhabitants, on Dean, on Bobby, on Cas... everyone. He had been so stupid, not listening to his brother when he knew better. He'd turned himself into a monster in an attempt to do the right thing.

The world didn't deserve Hell. Sam did. Why was he still here?

What if Dean really did die tonight? What if Sam went back in there and found Dean dead and gone? What would Sam do? He couldn't deal with this shit on his own. It had always been the two of them and Sam wanted nothing more than the opportunity to prove that it was still like that, but if Dean died... it would all be Sam's fault. It would be Sam's fault that he died tonight and it would be Sam's fault that the world was crumbling around them and it would be Sam's fault that their relationship wasn't what it should be. Why was he so _stupid?_

His chested ached as he fought to breathe. The air felt thin as he gasped for it, bracing a hand against the side of the house to hold himself up. Vision swimming, Sam took one unsteady step after another toward the woodpile. It wasn't like the porch was all that long, but it was slow going when he couldn't breathe well.

He didn't need to be panicking. He knew that. Dean was going to be okay. Sam just needed to get him warmed up was all. If Sam let this panic attack get the better of him out here on the porch, he would never get back to Dean in time to help. He wouldn't ensure Dean healed well, wouldn't help Dean at all and Sam would have failed the only important person left to him.

Fear raced through his veins as the What Ifs assaulted his thoughts. Images of Lilith haunted him, her sickeningly twisted smile and mocking gaze. Ruby, too, seemed to be staring out at him from the shadows. A soundless voice echoed through his head, Lucifer reminding Sam of all he had done and all he had left to do and that Sam would, in fact, do it. He couldn't be outside, they would find him. Sam needed to be inside, with Dean, safe from all the horrors of this life they lived. Outside, out in the open like this, was so dangerous -- for both of them! Sam needed to get back inside. Needed to get them both safe and huddled up and..... but he needed the wood for the fire.  _Dean_ needed it.

Sam could hear a whimpering noise, strangled and breathless, but wasn't sure where it was coming from, so he focused on the woodpile, determined to do what was needed to help Dean. He fucking  _owed_  this to Dean. His brother had done so much for him, and Sam, if it was the last thing he did, would repay his brother... it wouldn't be enough, it would never be enough to repay the kindness Dean had done for him, but Sam would try.

“One,” he gasped, picking up a log, “T-two... three... four...” Each stuttering word counted a breath in and a breath out. His hands shook and his heart felt ready to explode, it was pounding impossibly fast, but Sam would breathe and he would be okay. With his arms full, he turned and headed back to the door, counting as he went. “Thir-thirteen... fourteen... f-f-fifteen...” He made it back before reaching thirty.

He struck up a fire (wasting five matches in the process, his hands shook so hard now) and, blowing softly on the growing flame, Sam felt the panic slowly start to dissipate. He sat next to his brother, keeping Dean closer to the warmth than himself, and listened to Dean's shallow but even breathing. It was comforting on so many levels to know that Dean was still there, still okay, and even looked like a little color was coming back into his cheeks.

It wasn't until later, when the fire was crackling down to embers and Dean was leaning against Sam as he slept, that Sam realized the whimpering he'd heard while he was outside had been his own.

 

* * *

 

The Winchester boys liked to be on the move. They weren't the sort to stay in one spot for very long, itchy to feel the road pass beneath the wheels of their 'home' and see the landscape flying by them at 60, 70, 80 miles per hour. Hunting was in their blood, and jobs called to them whether they wanted to go or not. So when the boys were sitting in front of a fire later that night and Sam proposed an idea, Dean was a little confused.  
  
“What?” He stared at his younger brother from his position propped up against the sofa with their weaponry duffel next to him.  
  
Sighing, Sam put the knife he was cleaning down and stared at Dean, looking like he was trying to explain algebra to a five year old, “I said, why don't we stay here for a bit?”  
  
“Huh...” Dean said, a sarcastic twist lacing his voice and warning Sam of an impending argument, “Yeah, because the people in town weren't freaked enough when we killed their preacher and half their family members.” Dean scoffed and shook his head, turning his attention back to their weapons, “No, Sam, I don't think that's a good idea.”  
  
Sam's lips thinned at the finality of Dean's tone; it was the same typical bullshit his older brother pulled, putting the little brother in place. Sam was silent, though, letting the crackling of the fire fill the air.  
  
The thing was, he liked the town and, according to the few citizens they had spoken with (who weren't actually demons), it seemed that they could use helpful people like Sam and Dean. Sam liked their new squatting grounds, too. He liked the fireplace in it. That was definitely the best perk they'd found since the place back in Florida that had a working generator; he'd been loathe to leave that hot shower behind.  
  
More than any of that, though, Sam wanted Dean safe. He wanted the two of them away from the dangers of the supernatural world, away from the demons and angels and hellish creatures that couldn't be imagined. Stitching up Dean that day and having to pace the short living room, waiting for his feverish brother to wake -- well, that had been more than Sam could bear. Dean might make fun of him, but Sam had been so fearful that Dean would die without ever forgiving him for his stupid, apocalypse-sized mistake.  
  
“Dean, I mean it,” Sam spoke up again, ignoring the answering sigh of frustration, “This is a nice place for us to stay. We have a  _fireplace_  and there's a library--”  
  
“Such a geek,” Dean grumbled.  
  
“Will you shut up and listen to me?” Sam didn't give his brother time to interrupt again, pressing on with his argument, “They're gonna need help, Dean, and we can give it to them. At the very least, we can help repair the damage we caused to their property.” He waved at Dean's wrapped up torso and added, “Not to mention, you really need to take it easy for a while.” Squaring his shoulders, Sam made it clear he wasn't going to take no for an answer.  
  
Dean watched his brother closely, green eyes glimmering in the dim light of the fire. After a long moment, he sighed and turned toward their supplies, “We do need to stock up on some things. Maybe they'll share, if we help fix up some places.”  
  
He wouldn't admit how happy he felt seeing those dimples out in full force again.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for twirlycurls 's oh_sam h/c challenge prompt: Post-apocalyptic world filled with dangers but nothing the Winchesters couldn't handle – except that as soon as they find a relatively safe, secure place to settle, Sam develops severe agoraphobia and doesn't want to leave their house.
> 
> Takes place after the S4 finale, but goes AU after that.

The people were weary to see the Winchesters at first, but warmed quickly to the helping hands. Dean offered what he could, carefully favoring his shoulder. It wasn't lost on Sam just how much Dean milked the injury with the local girls.  
  
Sam, naturally, made short work of the library. He pulled some old reference books and stowed them away in the trunk, but the fiction he left for the people living there. No one would miss the dusty, leather-bound books hiding in the corners of the Dewey system.  
  
The boys taught the people of the town how to guard themselves. They shared charms, showed them runes and symbols to ward away intruders, and illustrated the proper uses of rock salt. In exchange, they received gas for their baby, some extra food, and the opinion of a medical student. The boy had been back in town for a week on winter break but, just before heading back to university, Sam had popped Lucifer free (not that they knew that particular detail), and the young doctor-in-training had been stuck at home. He had critiqued Sam's stitching pattern on Dean's wound, and Dean had to bite his lip not to laugh at the face his brother made in response.  
  
Sam took to staying in the Impala when they were out in town, nose buried in a book and knees propped up against the dashboard. Dean joked about how Sam would get flabby sitting around, but Sam just grumbled and asked if they could get back to their house.  
  
After a few days, Sam just didn't bother getting in the car. He would ask his older brother not to go out too much, but Dean was a busy-body and liked to have something to do with himself. Sam was content reading and combing through the notebooks he had accumulated over the months. Dean needed to be working. So he told Sam to do whatever he wanted, but Dean was going into town and he was taking the car with him. Sometimes Sam would stand on the doorstep and watch Dean leave.  
  
That lasted a few days, then Sam didn't come out at all. Dean wrote it off as Sam busying himself with research, connecting dots and trying to fix his grand master fuck-up. He ignored it and, for the most part, ignored Sam. They were both a little uncomfortable around each other – Dean still itching to lay blame where it belonged and Sam pussy-footing around with his tail between his legs – so conversation was kept to a minimum.  
  
After staying two weeks, Dean came home from town one day and proclaimed himself fully healed with the doctor-in-training's blessing to move their asses clear out of Stepford (in so many words). Sam was less than pleased by the news. He was glad that Dean had healed well enough, but Sam didn’t like the idea of having to leave the house he was now coming to think of as home.  
  
“I made lunch,” was all Sam replied.  
  
“Gettin' to be a regular housewife, Sammy,” the elder brother joked as he pulled his jacket off and took a seat opposite Sam at the table. Sam pulled his signature I-am-not-amused expression, then passed a bowl of warm chili and some dry, crusty bread to his brother. Having a fireplace made cooking easier and a lot more appetizing. “Man,” Dean said as he crumbled some of the crust on top of the chili, “I'm gonna miss this. Not really thrilled about going back to cold, soggy, canned soup every day.” Dean chuckled cynically.  
  
“Then don't,” Sam mumbled softly over his own bowl.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Well, let's just stay. Come on, Dean,” Sam's voice rose as Dean started to roll his eyes, “It's a good town and we've settled in here pretty--”  
  
“Do  _not_  say that,” Dean growled, staring Sam down. “We haven't  _settled_  anywhere. We stayed here because my shoulder was busted and you've been obsessed with reading every reference book they have here. Now I'm fine, got a clean bill of health. And you had to have read through every book you own by now.” Turning his gaze back to his bowl, Dean said, “We're leaving.”  
  
They ate in silence for a while, Sam fuming and Dean trying to pretend he wasn't.  
  
Dean's spoon clanked loudly in the stillness and made Sam startle. “What is it with you, anyway?” Dean asked accusingly. “You won't take one step out of the door. You're jumpy. What the hell, Sam?”  
  
Sam blinked, shaking his head, “I don't know what you're talking about.”  
  
“Like hell you don't,” Dean spat.  
  
“I just want to stay here,” Sam said, “Is that too much to ask? Just to take a break? We've got a nice set up here and the people don't want to kill us!” They were at a stale-mate, neither one wanting to concede to the other. “Dean, come on,” Sam pleaded.  
  
“Go outside, Sam.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Go outside,” Dean said with the calm, collected air of someone who knows they have already won an argument.  
  
Sam's mouth twitched in a nervous smile but he shook his head.  
  
“What's wrong?” Dean asked. “What is it about leaving this  _shack_ that's so damn terrifying?”  
  
“I'm not scared,” Sam said, crossing his arms.  
  
“You sure about that? Because it seems to me like you are.”  
  
“Well, you're wrong.”  
  
“Prove it.”  
  
The gravity of the statement made it seem like a death sentence.  
  
Sam's breathing quickened and his heart pitter-pattered a little quicker at being found out. He didn't want to have this conversation and he really didn't want to admit how he felt, especially not to Dean. If Sam was honest, the world outside their front door terrified him. His mind would run through a million and one what-if scenarios and he cringed every time, especially when they ended with Dean hurt... or worse.  
  
“'S what I thought,” Dean sighed, nodding his head.  
  
Sam was silent, not knowing what to say.  
  
With a shoulder-heaving sigh, Dean reached out to Sam. He took hold of his brother's arm and pulled him towards the front door.  
  
“Dean, what...?”  
  
“Putting an end to this, Sam.”  
  
Light-bulb moment and Sam started struggling, trying to yank his arm from Dean's hold on him. He managed to twist and pull out of Dean's grasp but then his brother was grabbing him around the shoulders and pulling him, bodily, to the door – and it was not a long distance, given the small size of the house.  
  
“Dean, stop,” Sam's voice was strained, pulled taught and pitched high with panic. “Please.”  
  
The elder Winchester grunted, still trying to keep a hold of his over-grown baby bother as he opened the door. “No, Sam,” Dean said through gritted teeth, “You're doing this.”  
  
“This isn't, ugh, funny, Dean. Let me go!”  
  
“No, it's not,” Dean grunted, kicking the door open and dragging them out onto the front lawn, “This stopped being funny a long time ago.”  
  
Sam gasped as he looked up and saw the dreary, post-apocalyptic sky, wide open and glaring down at him. Vertigo washed over him nauseatingly fast. He was going to fall right into that murky, gray-green expanse. “Dean, please,” Sam whispered, afraid his words would shatter the hold he had on gravity, but Dean wasn't listening.  
  
By the time the elder brother had dragged his younger counterpart into the middle of the front yard, Sam was gripping him so tightly it was likely going to leave bruises.  
  
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean huffed, “Let me go.” His attempts at brushing Sam away were useless as Sam kept reaching out to take hold of his shirt or his arm or his shoulder, anything really, that could help anchor him.  
  
The younger Winchester's head whipped around in circles, cataloging every little thing. He jumped at every sound, every movement. His breathing had quickly grown shallow and he was having difficulty swallowing, feeling like an invisible grip was holding his throat and slowly squeezing it. Oh God, what if Lilith had come back? What if that was her hiding behind that corner? Was she the one choking him? He had to get inside.  
  
“D-Dean, I need to get back inside,” Sam tried to say but his ears perceived a jumble of stutters and half-choked sounds. He whimpered and tugged at Dean's shirt, trying to get him back inside. The problem was that Dean didn't seem to want to go back in and Sam didn't want to even think about walking across the lawn by himself. He couldn't leave Dean.  
  
His hands trembled as he pulled at his brother but Dean wouldn't move. After a moment of desperate, pleading noises, Dean stopped trying to push Sam off him and, instead, put a reassuring hand on the younger man's shoulder.  
  
“See?” He said, low and easy into Sam's ear, “It's okay. I got you.”  
  
Sam shook his head, a low keen hitching in the back of his throat. He needed Dean to come back inside with him and just stay there. “Please, Dean,” he begged, hearing the whine in his own voice and not caring.  
  
His heart felt five times too big, compressed within the confines of his ribs, and his lungs fluttered frantically like caged birds. He felt sick, stomach roiling and his mouth going suddenly dry. God, he was going crazy. Sam had finally cracked and was going insane. This was it. He was losing it. Who couldn't leave a damn house? Especially someone like  _him_ , who'd lived on the road his whole life. Staying in the  _house_ should seem scary, not the other way around.  
  
Dean couldn't leave. If Dean left, Sam wouldn't be able to leave the house and he'd starve to death. Then what? Hell? Angels? Worse? Something would catch up with Dean and hurt him and Sam wouldn't be there to help. They had to stay together. That’s the whole reason the sky was an endless stretch of darkness, even at noon, and the ground was covered in patches of brown and olive -- dead grass and almost-dead grass, respectively.  Bad things happened when they split up.  Always,  _always_  bad things.  Why couldn't Dean see that?  
  
Sam's chest ached and he couldn't seem to get enough air. He felt dizzy, the ground seeming to move without him seeing it happen. Colors warped, dulling in hue but saturating in color. The edges of his peripheral vision dimmed and his knees grew weak. His hold on Dean's arm was his only anchor to the world. Without that, Sam would sink into nothing; he would simply cease to exist, swallowed up by a void of nightmares. He needed Dean to keep him grounded. Otherwise, the sky would open up and drown him.    
  
He was aware of Dean saying something to him – his name maybe? – but it was foggy in his head and there was cotton stuffed in his ears.  
  
Why did his chest hurt so much but his hands felt numb? His fingers tingled with pins and needles, and he could feel his heart beat in his toes.  
  
They were moving, suddenly, and the change brought with it a fresh, new wave of panic. Sam's voice quaked as he begged Dean to go back inside but then... then he realized that they  _were_ going inside. Dean was saying so and, when Sam managed to conjure enough wit to stop looking around them and look straight ahead of them instead, he realized that the door was getting closer. With every step toward it, he could feel the vice on his heart ease.  
  
The doorway.  
  
Just needed to get inside the door and...  
  
..and put the salt back in place, and check all the wards and protection charms, the hex bags and devils traps. Sam did all this and more, tripping over his own shaking limbs as he clambered over disorganized furniture in an attempt to double- and triple-check everything in the little house.  
  
Dean could only stand by, watching in horror at the wreck of a person his brother had become.  
  
Dean stood a silent sentry until Sam was finally satisfied and collapsed into one of the chairs at the dining table, letting the last quakes of panic ride his bones out. The elder Winchester let his hand rub over the dregs of wood left from the etched runes of a ward on their doorjamb, waiting for Sam to say something but his brother did nothing more than hold his head in both hands and shiver in his sweat-soaked clothes.  
  
Wiping the same hand over his face, Dean cleared his throat and said very softly, “Sam, when were you going to tell me about this?”  
  
Sam didn't look up. He just shook his head and whispered, “I couldn't.”  
  
Dean nodded, anger tightening his jaw. “Right, of course not,” he grumbled, looking around at their small little 'home'. He grabbed his keys and started for the door, saying, “I'll be back, okay? Don't go anywhere,” and the mean jab behind his words was not lost on Sam at all.

 

* * *

 

Dean couldn't deal with it, so he did what he always did when he couldn't deal – he went to a bar.  
  
There was only one bar in the town and it wasn't anything special, rarely had anyone in it, but there were a handful of people in there when Dean walked in and he waved a greeting to each of them.  
  
“Where's that brother of yours?” One of them asked, popping the lid off a new bottle of beer and sliding it to Dean.  
  
Dean pulled a long drought from the bottle before saying, “He's not feeling that great. Been housebound.” It was more or less the truth.  
  
The guy – Tom? Tim? – nodded solemnly and offered his best wishes Sam's way. Dean thanked them with a nod of his bottle and then turned to find a corner in which to drown himself.  
  
It was two beers and one glass of Jack later that three strangers walked into the bar. They were all at least Dean's age, if not older, and had a look of inquisitive determination about them. Even in a slightly-drunken haze, Dean knew they were hunters. There was a way hunters conducted themselves with people; like picking the con-men out from the door-to-door sellers.  
  
From his corner in the building, Dean watched the three men walk in and up to the wrap-around counter. One of them flirted shamelessly as the other two nodded in welcome to the citizens. It was obvious that the people of the town were weary of the strangers, as they had been with the Winchesters, but this time they were armed with better tools than fear. The man that had given Dean his beer pushed a glass of water to the hunters and insisted they each take a sip, which they all did without a problem. This was followed by each man taking a turn to hold a silver fork, which also went over fine.  
  
With the “formalities”, as the flirtatious one called them, over and done with, the eldest of the group – Dean assumed he was the eldest, anyway, and probably the leader – said that they had heard some ill rumors about trouble happening in town. Dean smirked around another swallow of liquor,  _beatcha to it_.  
  
Tim, Tom, Whoever informed the men that someone had already come by and taken care of it. Yeah, two brothers, guys just about your age. Winchester, yep, Dean and Sal – no, Dean and Sam. Good guys. Helped out plenty. Yeah, one of them was sick right now but the other was...  
  
Not in the corner of the bar anymore.

 

* * *

 

“Sam,” Dean called as he swung the door open in a rush, “Sam!”  
  
A mop of brown hair and two dark, pitiful eyes stared down the hallway at Dean from the bathroom's doorway. “Hey, Dean,” Sam said softly, “Was just trying to clean myself up.” His tone spoke of an obvious plea for forgiveness or, perhaps, the hope of truce.  
  
Dean walked up to Sam and put both hands on his shoulders, frowning; this wouldn't be easy.  
  
“Listen,” Dean started, picking and choosing his words carefully, “I was in the bar downtown--”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam said, fanning a hand between them, “I can tell.”  
  
“Shut up, this is important,” Dean barked, “There were hunters, Sam.” His younger brother went rigid beneath his hands, eyes widening comically. Little panic lines formed in the creases beneath his eyes, and it made him look so tired. “We need to go, Sam.”  
  
Hazel eyes blinked rapidly, clearing away some of his initial stunned reaction, and Sam shook his head. “No, you don't know--”  
  
“They were  _asking_ , Sam.”  
  
“But, they're not gonna--”  
  
“They are. They will. And I really don't wanna deal with this again.” He especially didn't want to deal with how much Sam seemed to think he deserved to be punished for what he'd done. Sure, Dean was pissed at him and thought there were some serious issues that needed to be addressed, but to beat him bloody for it? No, that was just... wrong. He had lost Sam once to a group of people looking to lay blame where it belonged and the image still haunted him; Sam, strung up on a crucifix and beaten blue, caked blood already dried a rusty brown in the time it took Dean to get there.  
  
Sam swallowed reflexively, quivering under Dean's hands. “You're just.... you're just trying to get me to leave.” He narrowed his eyes at his older brother, frowning, and said, “This is so typical! God, Dean--”  
  
“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean growled, “I'm not kidding.” He shook Sam's shoulders in an attempt to make him believe. “They were there. They asked that guy.... you know, Tom? Tim?”  
  
“Ted?”  
  
“Yes! Ted, with the beard thing,” Dean said, making a motion toward his own jaw, “Yes. He was there. I got a drink, sat down, and then these three guys walked in looking for the demons we ganked. They asked what happened and Ted started talking about us and then the guys got real curious and... and I left to come get you. Ted was definitely telling them about us and I doubt he'd have any reason not to say where we're staying. Sam, please... trust me on this, just once?”  
  
“Dean...” His voice was soft, hesitant, and it was clear he wanted to believe his brother. More times than not in the past months, the boys had been driven out of towns by other hunters. Maybe some of them wouldn't be looking to right some wrongs, but neither Sam nor Dean (especially not Dean) wanted to take the chance. “Dean... I can't...”  
  
“Yes, you can,” he said soothingly, “You can, Sammy. I mean, come on, what better home have you ever had than the Impala? There are Legos in the air vents! Our initials are etched into the trunk, Sam. We'll find another house if you want, but seriously, Sam, this isn't the place.”  
  
“But, it's not safe...” Sam worried his lower lip, eyes darting around.  
  
“Sure it is,” Dean lightly replied, “I mean it's pure iron. This house, it's what? Brick? Plywood? So what if there's salt on the windows or devil traps on the doors?” He joked easily, trying to sooth Sam's increasing anxiety. The younger Winchester was looking more and more distressed as the time passed and Dean was not looking to waste what precious little they had. “Listen, Sam. Whether I'm telling you the truth about these hunters or not, you've got to know this isn't healthy and this isn't good. You  _need_  to trust me on this. We'll get to the Impala, okay?”  
  
Sam stared at his brother, eyes searching imploringly for some glimmer of hope to hold onto. He knew Dean was right; this  _was_  unhealthy and he  _needed_  to leave this house. The outside world was no different than it had been in the past, it was still broken and barely keeping itself together, filled with the same ugly, nasty creatures it had always been filled with. He still had Dean.  
  
“Okay...,” Sam sighed, a shudder running down his spine as if he'd just agreed to have himself hanged, “Okay, I'll try. But, Dean, you can't hold it against me if I can't--”  
  
“Nope, don't say that,” Dean interrupted, smiling easily, “You can and you will and I'll be right there with you.”  
  
Sam helped pack things up and Dean carried them to the Impala. The back yard was fenced in, so Sam was comfortable enough stepping outside to grab some firewood and see if it would fit with everything else. Dean said he could fit the blankets into the backseat's foot wells to make room in the trunk. Sam managed to keep himself busy and, thus, preoccupied while they were packing but ultimately there was nothing left to pack and he was faced with the front door.  
  
Facing Lilith seemed easier than this.  
  
“Sam,” Dean's voice was gentle as he spoke, “You can do this.” He placed a deliberate hand on Sam's arm but the younger of the two didn't move. Instead, Dean wrapped his hand around and placed it firmly in the small of Sam's back while his other hand lay on his elbow. “Come on. I'm right here.”  
  
They took small, slow steps toward to the door and managed to walk three feet out into the yard before Sam started losing it. Within another two steps, Sam was hyperventilating again and Dean turned them around. He had half a mind to pull the car up on the dead grass and just shove Sam into the passenger's seat, but he knew this was more than just getting Sam into the car. Sam needed to walk it.  
  
“Okay... Okay, let's try this again,” Dean said, letting go of Sam momentarily. Without Dean's hands to anchor him, Sam shook even more violently than before, grasping helplessly for the doorjamb. Dean stepped in front of Sam, gripping the taught muscle behind both elbows, and started to guide Sam away from the doorway.  
  
Sam's hands latched onto Dean's forearms with bruising force, nails digging into the skin. Sam shivered and his shirt stuck to his chest, his hair already clinging to the perspiration on his face and neck. He felt woozy, like he'd drunk too much, and his feet were oddly disconnected from his nervous system.  
  
“It's okay, Sam,” Dean's voice helped bring Sam's wandering mind back to them, “I gotcha. Right here.  Keep your eyes on me, okay? Just breathe and stay with me.”  
  
God, but everything was different outside and the ground was a macabre mosaic of brown and death and unnatural stains and death and broken concrete and yet more death...  
  
Sam couldn't do this.  
  
Dean had been wrong. Sam needed to be in the house. He needed to just get inside and turn the deadbolts and check the salt lines and the wards and the runes and everything he'd placed so perfectly and strategically.  
  
Out here, there was nothing to protect them. The demons could find them, the angels could find them, the monsters and the crazy people and the people who just wanted help (and weren't they just as bothersome as the ones who were nuts?) and the hunters lookin' for someone to blame....  _anything_  could attack them out here and could kill them and Sam couldn't let that happen to Dean. Not ever. He just needed to get them back in the house. If he could just turn and see it...  
  
“Hey!” Dean's voice bit through the panic in Sam's mind and the younger Winchester startled in the elder's grasp, tripping over his feet and stumbling, but Dean held him steady. “Sam, come on, eyes on me, bud. Don't look at the... don't look back, don't look around. Just me, okay, Sam?” He gave Sam a soft shake, “Come on. Look at me, Sam. I gotcha. Almost there.”  
  
Sam swallowed back the bile rising in his throat and nodded. He wanted to turn around and look at the house. He wanted to drag Dean – kicking and screaming, if he had to – back to the house, lock the doors, and never come out. To hell with anyone who came to their door. They'd just shoot them... or something.  
  
There was a loud, broken sound down the street and Sam startled at the sudden noise, getting his feet tangled again. The tilt in his movement made him notice the glint of Dean's pendant and in that moment, he had an epiphany.  
  
“Whoa,” Dean mumbled, “Come on, Sammy, so close. Just five more feet, I swear, come on. Doin' great, man.”  
  
Sam didn't really hear him, though. His mind was focused on that Christmas back in 1991 and how Dean was always there, through all the years, and he held onto that thought through each step they took. It was surprisingly easy after that. Sam was still itching to get back into the house, back into something safe but it had to be with Dean (he saw that now) and if Dean was with him in the front yard of this ramshackle excuse for carpentry, Sam knew he would be okay. Dean had been right; they'd get through this. They'd get to the car in one piece, together.  
  
Dean let go of Sam's left elbow and yanked the passenger door open, guiding Sam inside. “See, Sammy?” He asked triumphantly. “Told ya we could do it.” He smiled and shut the door, dashing around the front of the car and into the driver's side.  
  
Sam sighed and relaxed into the leather of the seats, the scent of the car enveloping him in warmth and familiarity and calming memories of the open road. He could feel his pulse in his toes again and his fingers were tingling, but he felt better being in the car. It was more of a home than anything else had ever been – even if it didn't have a fireplace.

 

* * *

 

The Winchester boys took back roads out of the town, then the highway and finally got onto the interstate, itchy to put some quick distance between themselves and the people they'd left behind. The engine purred as the car accelerated along the on-ramp and both boys enjoyed the sound. It meant more to them than it would for most people.  
  
There were bits of scattered conversation during the drive out of town; things like “You doin' okay” and “Thanks for doing that” and “We'll figure something out”. Each time they spoke it was short and clumsy, but comfortable just the same because they both knew that they had done something that night. More to the point, they'd done it together. When was the last time they'd done something  _together_?  
  
Sam had no disillusions about his strange, new fears; they weren't gone and they probably weren't going to ever go away. But with a sidelong glance at his brother, at the pendant bouncing against his chest, at the softly-vibrating steering wheel and dashboard of the Impala, Sam knew he would cope just fine. Dean was right; they  _would_ get through this, just like everything else the universe had thrown at them. The Winchesters were a hardy breed, after all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I endeavored to write this and found that it was utterly impossible. I made it happen (somehow), but I fear I might not have done it justice. I would love to hear any constructive criticism those of you might have and welcome it with open arms. :)


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